


Toy Soldiers Brave Away Those Tears

by Snow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-10
Updated: 2010-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-12 14:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snow/pseuds/Snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the prompt: <em>I am in need of h/c. I am in need of Mycroft/John</em></p><p>So. John is hurt during one of Sherlock's chases. Sherlock just keeps.on.running.<br/>John, trying his best to keep up, finally collapses in a bloody, bruised, exhausted heap.<br/>The Sleek-Black-Car-of-Mycroft pulls up.<br/>Mycroft takes care of John and then chews out Sherlock.<br/>Sherlock does have the decency to seem a bit ashamed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toy Soldiers Brave Away Those Tears

John hardly pauses to see how severely injured he is before picking himself off the ground and chasing after Sherlock. He's the one with the gun, and he can hardly leave Sherlock to chase after a murderer by himself. John does spare a single, non-adrenaline-fueled thought for the fact that if he loses as much blood as he thinks he's going to, he's not going to have great aim. He dismisses the idea almost as soon as he has it. Sherlock needs him, and the injury probably isn't as bad as he thinks it is.

Sherlock hasn't slowed his pace at all, and John has to struggle to keep up.

John has no idea where they are, or how much further Sherlock plans on taking them. His focus has been narrowed to making his feet hit the ground and keeping Sherlock's back in sight.

As soon as he fails at the latter, his feet collapse in protest at how hard he's been driving them. John falls, hard, onto his side in a move he's sure he'll feel the aftereffects of for weeks to come. He props himself up a little, feeling for his trouser leg. He's surprised to find it drenched in blood, though that would explain the collapse. Sherlock doesn't return from around the corner, and John supposes he never expected him to.

John's thinking that he really should drag himself to a main road, where he has the chances of flagging a cab, when a sleek, black car pulls to a stop on the road beside him.

John barely has the chance to think _Mycroft_ before the man himself is stepping out, frowning down at John.

"I'm afraid I don't know where Sherlock was headed," John says.

Mycroft's frown deepens at that, and John wants to point out that he never agreed to look after Sherlock. He hasn't broken any promises here. "Do you need a hospital?" Mycroft asks.

John shrugs, feeling relaxed. He recognises that that's probably the loss of blood speaking. "Probably not. Depends on whether or not I retain consciousness."

Mycroft purses his lips and and bends at the knees to wrap a supporting arm around John. With the assistance, John manages to make it to his feet again. He limps to the car, once it's clear that that's what he's supposed to do.

John lets the seat support him, closing his eyes and sinking back into it. He supposes he should apologise for the blood which has to be dripping onto the floor, but John's not sure he has the energy for that right now. He's vaguely aware of Mycroft leaning over him to buckle his seatbelt, and then he thinks he feels the sensation of someone gently petting his hair. It's a pleasant thought, and he lets it lull him to sleep.

* * *

John comes back to consciousness slowly and with the awareness that he is very comfortable. He's more than a little worried about _that_ , until he realises that he's in a bed and his leg has been professionally bandaged. John raises his gaze from the leg to the chair by the bed, where Mycroft sits.

"Don't worry, you've been out for less than an hour."

John blinks at Mycroft a couple times, half-expecting him to disappear when challenged. He doesn't. "How's Sherlock?" John tries.

"He's fine. Though, speaking of Sherlock, I'd be much obliged if I could borrow your phone."

John considers the situation. "It's not in my pocket." He does still have trouser pockets, even if everything below the knee on his left side has been cut off, but their pockets are empty.

"Bedside table. I still thought it better to ask permission."

John nods. "Go ahead."

Mycroft only taps out a brief message, then hands the phone to John. He somehow manages to brush his fingers on the back of John's hand as he withdraws. "Thank you."

John glances at the message. It is, predictably enough, addressed to Sherlock. "John resting at my place. Need to talk to you anyway. Be here in an hour. Mycroft."

"He's not going to like that," John says.

Mycroft shakes his head. "I'm not terribly concerned about that." He breaks off, staring at John. "Did you have lunch today?"

John doesn't have to think long about the answer. "No."

Mycroft rises from the chair with the air of a man who has spent time being drilled in the benefits of proper posture. It has none of Sherlock's unpredictability in it, instead it's all casual elegance. "I'll be back with some food in just a moment." He's gone before John has a chance to protest that he doesn't need to be _fed_.

John looks at his phone again, but there's no reply from Sherlock. John wonders if he'll show. He supposes he shouldn't be that surprised to be the bait in Mycroft's trap for his brother. The thought does make him feel less awkward about accepting the sandwich Mycroft returns with.

John sits, propping himself up against the headboard. "I'm capable of sitting at a table," he says.

"I have no doubt of that," Mycroft replies, "But then I would be obligated to provide you with a proper meal, which would take rather longer to consume."

"Some other time, then." John smiles wryly.

Mycroft nods. "I'd be delighted if you would consider it."

John chews at his sandwich in silence for a couple of long moments while he thinks. "Are you flirting with me?"

Mycroft frowns, like flirting is something he considers beneath him. "Yes," he says eventually.

John sets the remainder of his sandwich on the plate on the bedside table. "I don't appreciate being made a pawn in this game you and Sherlock are playing."

Mycroft stands abruptly, picking up the plate. "I'll bring you some tea."

If John were in the habit of interpreting the Holmes brothers' actions through a normal filter, he would say that Mycroft had been upset by his words. Given how their interactions actually go, John has no idea what to think.

Mycroft does return with tea, and John checks his phone to find that they still have half an hour to go until Sherlock was told to arrive.

"I'm sorry I make you feel like a pawn," Mycroft says carefully. "I stopped thinking of you as one the first time I spoke with you, when you made it very clear you wouldn't be one."

John doesn't think that explains why Mycroft kept meeting with him, unless Mycroft's been flirting with him since that first meeting. Which is quite possible, now that John thinks about it. "You didn't need to ask Sherlock to collect me. I'm quite capable of paying my own fare."

"And deprive myself of your company that much sooner? I'd really rather not."

John shifts uncomfortably, not sure if Mycroft is stepping up the flirting because he doesn't see the point to being horrendously subtle any longer or because doing so plays into his plan. John wouldn't mind the former; it's very flattering to believe that Mycroft finds him attractive. He's just not sure it's true.

"I don't suppose kissing you would make you any more inclined to believe me."

"I highly doubt it. You're welcome to try anyway."

Mycroft smiles and seats himself on the edge of John's bed, his feet dangling over the edge and his upper body turned towards John. he leans in for a chaste kiss that doesn't stay that way for long, as John focusses his efforts on seeing if he can get Mycroft to moan. He can, though as soon as he manages it Mycroft separates anxiously, retreating to the chair to make himself look a little less dishevelled.

"Sherlock's here," he mutters as he pulls at his sleeves to straighten them.

John runs a finger over his lips, not feeling any particular desire to put himself to rights. Sherlock can draw whatever conclusions he wants, John is fairly certain that the kiss might have convinced him after all. He thinks that not even Mycroft could _fake_ the desire he'd let slip during their kiss.

Sherlock stands in the doorway for a long moment before nodding to John. "Right," he says. "Let's go."

John doesn't move. All things considered, he's comfortable where he is. Besides, he's curious what Mycroft wanted to talk to Sherlock about.

"Did you even notice he was shot?" Mycroft snaps.

John wrinkles his brow in confusion, then wrinkles it even more as he assimilates the fact that Mycroft is clearly referring to him. He hadn't heard a gunshot and had dismissed the pain, thinking a branch has broken the skin when they'd run through the series of hedges.

"Of course I noticed," Sherlock replies. "I'd assumed he would stop if it was anything serious. And he did."

"I _collapsed_." John's temper is short from learning that he'd apparently been shot and failed to notice. "They're bloody not the same thing."

Sherlock shrugs. "You're fine now, aren't you? _Mycroft_ took care of everything." His voice is heavy with insinuation.

"Take a little responsibility." John glances up to find Mycroft glaring at Sherlock while he speaks. "John was shot because you led him into a dangerous situation. The least you could do is apologise."

Sherlock studies one of the corners of the bed. "I'm sorry, John. I shouldn't have left you to the terribly dull company of my brother."

Despite the wording, his tone sounds genuine, and John nods in acceptance.

"Now we're going," Sherlock tells Mycroft.

"Actually, if it's fine with Mycroft, I'd like to stay a little longer."

Sherlock presses his lips together, then spins and exits.

Mycroft tilts his head. "I promise I'm not seducing you just to upset him."

John laughs lightly. "You're not seducing me at all," he tells Mycroft.

"I'm not?"

" _I'm_ seducing _you_. Now come sit on the bed. It's not polite to make the injured person do all the reaching."

Mycroft sends John a warm smile that goes straight to his cock. "And I would never dream of being _rude_ ," he purrs as he leans in.

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome and appreciate comments, including constructive criticism.


End file.
